


Beneath the Slacks

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Feminization, First Dates, M/M, Panty Kink, Secretary Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:31:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be honest, Castiel is kind of an alien to Dean. He’s insanely organized and punctual to an absolute. He’s also been Dean’s assistant for an entire year, since he arrived at Sandover in the Marketing division. It would be indecent to not attribute at least a fraction of his success to his assistant’s meticulous nature—success that lead him to be Vice President of his division now.</p><p>Still, their relationship is something very distant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath the Slacks

Today is a good day at Sandover, because today Dean’s schedule is empty.

He celebrates a brief hiatus from meetings and conference calls by ordering dressing on his salad. Sweet, strawberry vinaigrette poured over thick leaves and croutons. Months of a very strict diet and the dressing is practically orgasmic. It occurs to him, mere minutes later when his meal is devoured, that he really doesn’t remember how to have fun.

Years of constant schooling - first to get his degree in Sociology, and then his MBA from Stanford - blur together and all he knows how to do is work. It’s always been a pleasant buzz of purpose, working, and it’s bothersome to have nothing to do. Dean kicks off his shoes beneath his desk and crosses his legs in his chair, stretching his hamstrings in the process.

Out of instinct, he presses the button on his phone, the intercom linking to his assistant’s desk. “Um, Mr. Novak?” 

There is a slight delay before his headset crackles. “How can I be of assistance, Mr. Smith?”

That’s the thing. Dean doesn’t need anything. He’s just bored; the most professional part of him reminds Dean that assistants to not exist to relieve boredom. But he doesn’t really know what else to do.

"Just—just come on in," Dean mumbles and presses the button again, cutting off the connection.

And it doesn’t take long before Castiel Novak is standing in the threshold of his office. Per usual attire, Castiel’s blue tie is sloppily knotted tight at his neck, but his white dress shirt is perfectly pressed and his dark dress pants pleated to perfection. Dean sometimes wonders if Castiel ever ate, because God knows he could never pull off the white shirt look with his eating habits.

To be honest, Castiel is kind of an alien to Dean. He’s insanely organized and punctual to an absolute. He’s also been Dean’s assistant for an entire year, since he arrived at Sandover in the Marketing division. It would be indecent to not attribute at least a fraction of his success to his assistant’s meticulous nature—success that lead him to be Vice President of his division now.

Still, their relationship is something very distant. Even though Castiel knows—and, for that matter, learned in a matter of days—that Dean will only drink caffeinated coffee on Saturday nights after 8 pm; every other morning Castiel knows that Dean drinks decaf with exactly three Splendas and a tablespoon of Half & Half. No exceptions. He also knows how Dean likes his lunch, how he likes to limit his portions and carbs.

Yet, Dean knows nothing about him except that—rain or shine—Castiel always leaves his office with a trench coat. Nothing more, nothing less. Ever.

“Mr. Smith?” Castiel says, and Dean blinks because he was just…he doesn’t know. He was thinking.

“Yeah, um, you have lived in the city longer than I have, I bet,” Dean murmurs.

“My entire life,” Castiel deadpans.

“Oh.” Dean feels a little embarrassment rise in his cheeks. “Well, in that case—what the hell is there to do around here? I know of a couple bars, ya know—taking clients out for drinks and such.” Castiel continues to watch him, expressionless and attentive. “…But you know that because you scheduled all that.”

Castiel only confirms this by bowing his chin.

“Damn,” Dean mutters under his breath and presses the heels of his palms to his eyelids. He feels kind of douchey that the moment; here he is, talking to the guy who’s practically orchestrated his life for the past year and… he’s just been pushed behind this curtain.

Suddenly an idea crosses his mind—a fucking weird one but it’s been a boring day and his life’s pretty lacking in the excitement department so why the hell not.

“Why don’t you join me for a drink at, uhm, maybe the Roadhouse?” It’s the western-style bar and grill just a couple blocks down from Sandover headquarters and probably the most familiar bar. It reminds him of home, Mom’s burgers and Dad’s music. And there’s a waitress there who distinctly reminds him of Jo, which is probably why she is way off limits in his mind.

Visibly, Castiel seems shocked by the suggestion. Flustered. “I—if I have no plans, which I don’t because you do not…” he fumbles out, and Dean finds himself grinning.

“So you’re game, then?”

“If—yes.” He nods once, firmly. “Let me call the driver.”

Dean raises a hand, and then reaches into his pocket to retrieve a set of keys. “No need. We’ll take my car.”

“Oh-okay. Let me grab my coat…”

Dean tries to ease the awkwardness that is so clear on his face by smiling. “Of course.”

It does not help. Castiel fumbles to get the door open and shuts it loudly behind him. He opens it to apologize quickly, and Dean only laughs. So much for alien composition.

 

* * *

 

“I’ll have a Bud Light with a water with lime on the side,” Dean tells their waitress with a smile as he sheds his jacket. The overcast, rainy weather had really splotched his jacket, and flattened his hair. He uses the heel of his palm to push his hair out of his eyes before looking to Castiel. “Order whatever you want, it’s on me.”

“Just a water please,” he tells the waitress quietly.

Finding himself frowning, Dean leans his elbows against the table. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, man.”

Castiel glances down at his watch. “But it’s two twenty-one here.”

It takes about five seconds to realize the reference was lost on Castiel.

“Um, okay.” Dean is relieved when the waitress comes back with his beer and he practically grabs it from her hand. God he hasn’t drank a real (and this barely qualifies as real) beer in a while. Always whine and cheese with most higher-ups. Not that he doesn’t enjoy a good red now and again, but his roots lie in taverns with loud country music and girls wearing Daisy Dukes.

Corporate life is treating him so well.

“So Cas—is it alright if I call you that?” Dean says as he sets his beer back down. Castiel only nods, but as Dean watches him he realizes he’s still in his trench coat—which is wet and wrinkled. “Dude, take that off, you’ll catch something.”

Wordlessly, Cas does—shrugging his shoulders until he’s got it off both of his arms. He turns around slightly, his wet white shirt straining against his torso. Dean unthinkingly licks his lips when he sees the lines of muscle beneath.

Whoa since when did Dean start noticing that? He blinks and looks down at his beer. He hasn’t even drank half of it but his tolerance is definitely not that shitty. Just to be safe he pushes it to the opposite corner of the table, and takes a long drink from his water instead.

“I should have brought an umbrella,” Cas laments to himself, eyeing Dean for a moment before looking away. “It’s cold in here.”

“I’m…sorry. Um, when we get back to the office I got an extra shirt. We’re about the same size.” Dean’s jaw works at the idea of someone else wearing his shirt. It leaves an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, but he eyes Cas a little more and the aching feeling turns into something even more bothersome. Something he’d much rather keep at arm’s length. “You can wear it and give it back later,” he gushes out.

A surprising amount of red flushes into Cas’s cheeks and he closes his eyes for a brief moment before meeting Dean’s. “Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

“Please. Just Dean,” he says with a smile. “Whenever I hear that I feel like I should look around and see if Will Smith is behind me.”

Cas’s eyebrows furrow and he tilts his head. “Didn’t he play a prince with excellent personal hygiene?”

“Ha!” Dean breaks out into a fit of laughter, covering his mouth as he tries to reign it all in. “Oh God, you mean Fresh Prince of Bel Air?”

Castiel continues to blush and he nods. “I do not watch television.”

“No, Cas, it’s cool,” Dean assures him. “Just funny is all. It’s about a kid from Philly who goes to live with his rich aunt and uncle. He’s ‘fresh’ because he’s cool, and he’s a prince because he feels like he’s living on top of the world, ya know.”

“How does a show like that…have appeal?” Castiel asks with genuine dumbfoundedness.

Dean takes a sip of his water as he shakes his head. “Dunno. I’ll have to ask Mr. Smith someday.”

When they get back to work, Dean is happy. Content. He hasn’t gone out with anyone outside work in a long time.

…Okay so Castiel doesn’t really qualify as an ‘outside of work’ entity, but Dean didn’t exactly put him in the same category as Sandover department heads, or potential clients. He was kind of foreign, even though Cas practically ran his life. It was something that, if Dean squinted, could be friendship.

Maybe.

Despite whatever they have, Castiel seems a little less tense now too. They walk upstairs together, side-by-side in the hall as Dean prattles on about tomorrow’s schedule. Castiel is attentive as ever to Dean’s complaining.

“If you do not wish to have the meetings back-to-back, I could always call and see if your meeting with Burtons can be shuffled around,” Castiel suggests as a solution.

Dean pauses for thought. “God, Cas, that would be awesome. I wouldn’t be rushing to get the Conference room set up either.”

“And I could always help you do that,” he reminds Dean.

“Um, right, yeah. Thanks.”

Castiel smiles and side glances. “As always, I’m pleased to be of assistance.”

A sudden wave of awkwardness flutters in Dean’s stomach and he clears his throat. “Well, let me get you that clean shirt. Don’t want you catching a cold, now.” Dean unlocks his office door and invites Cas in again. He goes to his duffle and retrieves the neatly folded blue shirt, and then hands it to Cas. “I’ll step out while you change.”

“Thank you again,” he murmurs. “Dean.”

Once out of the office, Dean exhales because he should not be as affected by that deeply thankful, gravelly voice saying his name as he is. Once content, now frantic, Dean seeks out some sort of explanation for why he’s suddenly got his panties in a bunch over Cas. He’s just a guy. He’s a nice guy and definitely lacking in the tits department—effectively making him not Dean’s type.

Not really thinking and assuming enough time had past, Dean goes back into his office. Cas doesn’t even hear the door open, but he’s facing away from the door with his shirt off as he undoes his belt. Dean watches his back, the roll of flesh and muscle as his trimmed arms go back and forth. Once the belt is undone his pants sag slightly, so Cas will be able to tuck the new shirt in. But—but Dean sees a flash of lace. Then, as he bends slightly to pick up Dean’s shirt from where he’d lain it the seat of his desk chair, the flash becomes a whole piece splayed across the area above his buttox. Lace.

Somehow, Dean manages to stumble back out of the office and close the door without even gaining Cas’s attention.

Mother of God, what did he just see? He runs through a dozen scenarios and keeps coming back to Cas being some sort of crossdressing tranny. So, he’s not really educated in any of the terms or whatever for those types of guys, but he has an excuse. He’s always been that stereotypical smart, straight, sporty guy. The only activism he performs is recycling paper at the end of the day. He never even conceived that those types walked around at Sandover, worked on his floor, made his coffee.

It takes a few beats to realize that it’s not the fact that guys wear lacy undies that bothers him—some girl in college asked him to wear her lace ones and he’d be lying if he said they weren’t pretty damn comfy—but the fact that Cas is wearing lace underwear to work.

It’s sexy as hell.

The admission brings a tidal wave of shock and guilt, because he just had an awesome day out with his assistant, and now he’s becoming the focal point of some perverted fantasy Dean never even knew he wanted.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

He literally jumps at the voice—low, sexy, mysterious—behind him. Cas is finishing putting on his belt and Dean drinks him in. The blue shirt matches his eyes, a deep and profoundly soft blue. It looks way better on Cas.

Dean blinks and mumbles a reply that’s not really coherent, squeezes by him and shuts his office door as soon as he’s inside. For good measure he locks it, and stares down.

There is a tent in his dress pants, and he’s suddenly in high school again—contemplating how he should go about taking care of this inconvenient erection.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Dean’s first meeting goes well without a hitch. The co-CEOs of a potential client came to hear his pitch about Sandover’s latest finance program, and Dean can read straight past their poker faces. From here forward, they’re gonna be like putty in his hands.

The morning also went quite well since Dean avoided Castiel. When he returns to his office, he does feel bad, because Cas must have sensed his evasiveness—he ended up leaving a coffee on Dean’s desk. He takes a sip and it’s bitter, but not because Cas made it wrong. Guilt rolls heavy in his stomach because Cas did nothing wrong. He shouldn’t have walked in to see him conveniently bent over and exposing his…garment. Dean was never meant to see that.

But he did, and he most definitely cannot unsee it. He was able to will away the erection he developed at work, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t fervently jack off in the safety of his own home.

There is also a note on his desk, telling him that his next meeting was pushed back until one o’clock. Thank the gods of pie…and Cas.

He throws the coffee in the trash, barely touched, and gets up to go to the conference room with his projector and laptop in tow.

Once inside, he pulls the blinds on all the windows so he can make sure his projector is working properly. He mouths through the slides on his Powerpoint, cross referencing the slides with his notes to make sure everything else is covered.

He hears a soft knock on the door, and Dean pauses his train of thought to call, “Come in.”

“Mist—Dean?”

Dean turns to see Castiel approaching from the other side of the conference table. He rests a hand on one headrest, which if Dean analyzes long enough, he think that Castiel might be gripping the chair in such away as to put space between them. Defensively. The realization makes Dean’s face relax, almost sorrowful.

“Hey Cas. What’s up?”

It takes a beat or two for Castiel to clear his throat, gravel and all, and then answer. “I told you I would help set up. Though I did not think that, with four hours until the meeting, you’d be doing so already.”

“Be proactive,” Dean quotes robotically and then chuckles. “I mean, never hurt to start early. Preparation is important.” The last sentence fumbles out of his mouth before he even registers the alternate connotation.

Castiel tilts his head slightly, watching Dean blush, surely. “Indeed.”

“But you can go. It’s all pretty ready to go.”

He still doesn’t leave though, just looks at Dean.

“I wanted to make sure… you were alright,” Castiel finally says and looks away. “If I did something wrong, I would like to know. I cannot change my behavior if…I am not told that I have done something to displease you.” His chin falls forward and Dean reads the pain across his face. He thinks he’s done something wrong and it’s hurting him. The realization, instead of leaving Dean feeling bad, gives him the sudden thought: Cas is completely submissive.

Okay, so then he feels guilty when all the blood leaves his brain and goes to his groin, and he finds himself hiding his lower half behind a chair too. He doesn’t wanna pop a boner here and now. Definitely not. But just in case, he doesn’t want Cas to see.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Cas,” Dean croaks, voice cracking. “I’m just having a day.”

“Can I do anything?” Castiel asks.

Undo your belt. Take off your shirt. Bend over and show me what you’re wearing today.

Dean smiles and shakes his head. “Mhm…uh, no. Just—um, okay.” He clears his throat. “Make dinner reservations for two, tonight at the Cuban place down on 4th Street.”

Cas visibly relaxes and exhales, giving Dean a small grin. “Yes sir. Good luck with your presentation.”

“Thanks,” Dean says back, relieved when Cas leaves and he’s left alone in the dark. He’s hard, and tries to reduce it by palming himself. Even though it hurts, the stimulation makes him groan, which he muffles in the crook of his elbow. He can’t will this one away, so he turns off the projector and makes his way to the bathroom and locks the door behind him.

One hand on his dick, the other on the wall, he only thinks of blue eyes looking up at him and a mouth around his penis. He comes to the image of his fingers slipping past lace and clutching a hot, wet dick that was in fact not his own.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly seven when Dean hears a soft ring in his headset. The tone tells him it’s just the intercom and he answers.

“Cas? Need something?”

“I’m just reminding you that your dinner is in thirty minutes,” Cas says on the other side of the line. His tone is lacking in that helpfulness that, even in a monotone, is always there.

“Oh, crap,” Dean says and tears off his headset, throws it on his desk. He makes sure he has his keys and wallet before opening his office door. He finds Cas’s cubicle and a surprised deer-in-headlights expression is on his face when Dean is standing over him. “Get your coat on.”

“What?” Cas stammers, but stands up and begins to put on his jacket nevertheless. Now that Dean is paying attention, he realizes that Cas always does what he says. It goes straight below the belt, but Dean really doesn’t want tonight to be about that. He’s pretty much accepted he’s attracted to Cas but he doesn’t want the epicenter of any potential relationship to be…that. Or his lacy panties. Fuck.

“I’m taking you out to dinner.”

Castiel’s mouth worked. “You mean—that was for us all along?”

“Yeah. To be honest, I don’t have time to get to know people. I’ve known you for a while, Cas, but yesterday really…opened my eyes.” He smiles fondly, but it turns into a smirk once he sees Cas blush. “Now, as my dad would say, get on with it—I’m hungry!”

 

* * *

 

Dean didn’t initially mean for it to become a date, but as the night went on, it did. In this city, his names holds a little bit of weight, so the hostess seated them in a very private space with a small bench. Not two chairs. One bench.

With that, Dean finds himself juxtaposed right up against Cas. Luckily (or unluckily, maybe), Cas is left handed—something he notices immediately when their elbows don’t touch and rub throughout the course of their meal.

They both ordered a variety of tapas, which they shared between the both of them. They were mostly finger foods, which meant Dean got to see his fair share of finger licking on Cas’s part. He seemed so innocent, the way he’d just pluck one into his mouth, and then another.

Dean has to pry his eyes away, and shoves a chip topped with hummus past his lips.

They share small talk, mostly about their personal lives. All Dean really has to talk about is his extensive and expensive schooling and his dorky kid sister who is training to become an FBI agent. She could never stay out of the gun range, Dean explains, so when she came to that point in her life where she needed to actually pick a career, law enforcement did it for her. And damn she excelled. Jo was way smarter than Dean but he also wasn’t a free spirit.

And Cas went on a little about his family. His mother was eccentric, his father absent, which resulted in him practically raising himself. He has one older brother who is an architect in DC, but he’s so much older than Cas that they didn’t grow up together, but they were cordial.

One thing they have in common is that their lives revolve around work.

“Can’t help but feel like that’s my fault, a bit,” Dean laughs.

“Luckily, I enjoy being your assistant. To be frank, some of my past employers were quite—demanding of me.” Cas lowers his eyes and shoves some food in his mouth, distracting Dean with his chewing. You’d think it was an intentional distraction.

“Aren’t I demanding?” Dean says, watching Cas’s reaction carefully. Excitement fills him when he sees that slight reddening that he loves in Cas’s cheekbones, though his expression itself reveals nothing.

“You are not demanding in the way they were…”

“Uh—schedule wise?”

“No, sex wise,” Cas says exasperatedly and drops his arms.

Dean suddenly feels very sick and subconsciously pulls away, retreating to the opposite side of the seat. “That…that’s awful.”

Castiel senses the shift, eyes wide and prodding as he stares at Dean’s face. “I made you uncomfortable.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I did,” he presses. “Dean, please. You don’t have to worry about me feeling that way. Feeling that you’re too demanding. Ever.” He licks his lips, and Dean can’t even thinking about looking away from them.

“So…if your former boss made a move on you, what did you do?” Dean murmurs.

“I’d quit.”

Dean finds himself breathing a little harder, because he’s sure Cas is twice as close than they were before he even pulled away. He can smell distinct, rugged cologne that definitely isn’t his.

“…If I did…?”

“I’d wait,” Cas breathes, and it’s an answer that’s good enough for Dean.

He kisses Cas hard on the lips, shaking with anticipation and then explosively eager when he sucks at Cas’s lower lip. The man moans slightly, opening his lips and inviting Dean in. Dean presses and kisses into his mouth as his hand squeezes his thigh, working up. Even though they’re in semi-privacy, Dean doesn’t feel comfortable going to second-base with his assistant in a public restaurant. He reaches into his back pocket, barely taking his lips from Cas’s, and pulls out a hundred dollar bill.

“That’s too much,” Cas murmurs against his lips.

“You’re worth it.” Dean doesn’t even know why that was his quickest response but he’s pleased that Cas hums pleasantly against him. So worth it.

How Dean is able to keep his mouth of Cas all the way to the car, and then from the car to his apartment—he doesn’t know. But when they break across the threshold of his bedroom everything is fair game. His mouth on Cas’s neck as he desperately undoes his tie and pulls it over his head—his hands sliding beneath the clean, white dress shirt. It has to come off, he decides, and Cas works from the top while Dean works from the bottom to peel it off him.

“How long?” Cas asks him, breathless, just before Dean leans into lick at his lips again. Before he answers, he takes a moment to feel across his chest, the firm muscle splayed below his palms. His.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly, gruff. “But I want you so much…fuck.” Castiel is arching his hips into Dean’s, tantalizing him. Two can play at that game “Don’t play around with me…you’re gonna lay back… take what I have to give you. Do you understand?” he pants out.

Castiel is stunned, staring up from the mattress as Dean hovers above him. Then he nods. “Yes.”

Dean draws a hand down between their hips and palms Castiel through his pants. “Yes what?

“Yes Dean—Dean!” His sentence breaks off into a moan as soon as he palms Cas again.

Then he makes fast work of undoing Cas’s belt as he mouths at his stomach, sucking bruises into his hips. It’s when Dean begins to unbutton his pants that Cas gasps and grabs his wrists.

“Wait,” Cas murmurs, blinking down at him. “Let—I have to go to the bathroom—”

Dean smiles and drops his mouth to the hand closed around his own. “‘Fraid I’m gonna see your pretty lacy panties?”

Cas’s eyes widen. “Wh—how did you?”

It’s Dean’s turn to blush. I accidentally walked in while you were still changing…saw you…needed you…”

“Dean,” he whispers and drops his hands.

Finally, Dean pushes Cas’s pants down to his knees. He knew they’d be toned, just like the rest of them, but he’s not expecting to find this pair of crimson thigh highs rising up his trim legs. Dean licks his lips, draws a hand down the curve of Cas’s lacy ass and sighs. “I didn’t know you were this naughty.” He drops his mouth to the inside of Cas’s thigh and presses adoring kisses, sucks wildly with no abandon, all while making sure he’s looking up at Cas, who watches him closely.

“I wear them…and fantasize that one day you’ll invite me…into your office,” Cas breaks out, moaning when Dean nuzzles his dick with his nose. His panties are soft and wet, the member inside them just hot and begging for his touch. “…and you’ll fuck me over your desk.”

“God, Cas,” Dean whispers and reaches between his own legs and rocks into his hand, in need of some kind of friction. “You’re just…” Dean can’t coherently describe how hot everything about this is—the muscle, the heat, the lace, the feeling of cock pressed against his face. Carefully, he peels down the lacy waistband of the panties. Once released, Cas’s dick bobs and lays against his stomach, hard and coated already. Dean quickly, instinctively, closes his mouth around the head. Sure, he’s never given a blow job but he knows how he likes ‘em, so he figures it’s a good place to start.

Cas’s fingers knot themselves in Dean’s hair as he whispers—begs—for Dean to not stop. Not that he wants too. Propped on one elbow he sucks and licks for all he’s worth while he rocks his hips against his hand.

He’s probably gonna come in his pants like a teenager just from the sounds Cas is making. They’re whimpers, pleading whimpers that are a garbled mix of ‘Dean’ and ‘please’ and ‘don’t stop’, and Dean doesn’t want to. Ever. But he feels himself on the precipice and breaks away.

Cas cries out, pulling at his hair and begging him to continue. Dean gets away just long enough to push his pants down, boxers and all, so he can climb up to give Cas a sloppy kiss that probably tastes like his own precome. He must taste it, because one lick against Dean’s tongue and he moans something that resonates deep in his chest.

After a few seconds of heated kissing, Dean comes up for air and his dick throbs for some sort of release that’s been coming probably ever since Dean laid eyes on Cas. How long had he suppressed this, because this need sure as hell wasn’t two days old. This is slow burning, hot and heavy, absolute need. He aligns their erections, and gives one meaningful thrust that makes Cas’s mouth fall open, a soundless moan. Just from the curve of his mouth, Dean knows he’s tout and ready to come. He leans down close to his ear, gripping his stubbled jaw as he does. “Come, Cas,” he whispers. “Do it. For me.”

And he does, hot liquid spurting all over Dean’s shirt. A few thrusts later and Dean’s coming too, and the sound he makes comes out more like a choked sob. Relief, he thinks. This is what the calm in a storm feels like.

He rolls over and begins to unbutton his own shirt as he comes down from his high. He’s glad he’s not really fond of this one, as he uses it to clean them both, and then throws it off the bed. Cas’s eyes flutter open and shut, watching him carefully. Dean almost recognizes the look—it’s one he’s seen on the faces of many of his bedmates.

 _Are you going to stay?_ it asks.

He doesn’t answer with a word, but by throwing an arm over Cas’s chest and pulling himself against him. A kiss to lips, then his forehead.

Dean is relieved that tomorrow, his schedule is empty. And he hopes that no one will raise an eyebrow if both he and Cas call in sick.


End file.
